Ralph S. Mouse - Beverly Cleary [16]
Ralph dodged feet until he was safe against the wall, where no one would step on him or even notice him in the crowd. As soon as all the children had left, he made his way to the library without bothering to nibble any of the popcorn squashed on the floor. The torn book bag in which he had enjoyed such comfortable naps was gone, but he found a fresh bag, gnawed a hole in the brown paper, and crawled into the soft, ready-chewed stuffing. How good it felt—warm, cozy, and comforting—after all he had been through this terrible afternoon.
In the hall, Mr. Costa was sweeping up popcorn with his broad broom while his transistor radio sang a sorrowful song about a broken-hearted man trying to hitch a ride on a lonely stretch of highway while the coyotes howled in the night.
After Mr. Costa left, the school was a silent, deserted place. The next morning the children did not return. Ralph, who did not understand that there was no school on Saturday and Sunday, had never been so alone in his life. He stood in the cold and empty hall and squeaked as loud as he could, but his tiny voice could not even raise an echo. All weekend he roamed the desolate halls and classroom, halfheartedly nibbling whatever he could find to eat, going pb-b-b because he missed his motorcycle so much, and wondering if he was doomed to roam forever the lonely corridors of the Irwin J. Sneed Elementary School. Why didn’t the children return?
Ralph thought of the old hotel with its shabby lobby warmed by a crackling fire. He missed the reassuring tick of the rasping old clock. He missed watching television and the activity in the lobby—the arrival and departure of guests and the arguments among the staff. He missed old Matt, his protector, and supplies of peanuts and popcorn from the Jumping Frog Lounge. He wondered if his plan to make the little mice leave the lobby had worked and if Matt still had his job.
Ralph discovered he even missed—sort of—his little brothers and sisters and cousins. He wondered if the littlest one still fell over his own feet and became tangled in the fringe of the carpet. He wondered what they would say if they could see him now, cold and lonely, in the vast empty school. He also wondered what they would say if he went home with Ryan without his motorcycle. Something like, “Yah, yah! Serves you right for not wanting to give us rides.”
The scoffing of his relatives was something Ralph could not face. Never. As he walked slowly back to the book bag in the library, he heard a dog bark in the distance and was reminded of the coyotes that howled in the night in the song about the lonely man trying to hitch a ride on the highway. What a sad world he lived in.
7
The Cucaracha Voice
Sometime late Sunday night the weather changed. Snow began to melt. By Monday morning, the fleet of school buses came sloshing through slush. Boots and waffle stompers tracked mud and icy water into the halls of Irwin J. Sneed Elementary School, where the wearers were met by Mr. Costa holding a large mop.
Ralph, whose weekend had been so long and so lonely, felt such a surge of joy and relief at the sound of school buses that he skittered back to Room 5 in a forgiving mood. There he hid in the old mitten. Anything, anything was better than that long, cold, miserable weekend, and perhaps Ryan had found a way of repairing the motorcycle.
Miss K’s class arrived in a grouchy mood. Snow was fun; slush was not. There was more confusion than usual as the children peeled off their wraps and kicked off their boots. Many were carrying clippings from the Cucaracha Voice. Miss K was not in the room to welcome them, which did not help.
Gordon told Melissa, who was wearing wet shoes and carrying her boots, that he was sure static electricity would not hold a mouse to a sock. Melissa told Gordon he had no imagination.
Brad arrived with his arm in a sling. Instantly a rumor started that Brad had hit Ryan so hard he had injured his hand. Sides were taken; arguments began.
Ryan glared at Brad. “You owe me a motorcycle for